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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136190">Method Acting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy'>clumsycopy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Man Who Killed Don Quixote (2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Awkward Crush, F/M, Fluff, Kissing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:27:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136190</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You ask the legendary Toby Grisoni for some help to work on a scene. To your surprise, he says yes. That should be good, but why you feel like you won’t get through it without losing your mind?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Toby Grisoni/Reader, Toby Grisoni/You, Toby Grummet/Reader, Toby Grummett/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Method Acting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I know what I have to do, but I don’t know if I have the strength to do it. Will you help me?” Your eyes scan the rest of the page, commiting the next lines to your memory before your gaze shifts to Toby. <em>Wait no, Ben, the character’s name is Ben. This is not real.</em> The thought withers your joy like a swarm of clouds blocking the sunlight.</p>
<p>“Of course. Anything. Anything <em>for you</em>,” he whispers, with so much sincerity that your heart jitters for a moment. Blood rushes to your cheeks, spreading its treacherous warmth through your chest and ears as well. You scramble to remember your next sentence. Were his lines even on the script? How can he improvise with such naturality?</p>
<p>“Take my hand.” <em>Who’s writing these things?</em> You don’t know if you want to dig a hole on the ground and crawl there or just bolt back to your trailer and pretend you didn’t pester Toby for his help. To be fair he agreed as soon as the proposition left your lips, mouthing off about how he knew the perfect place to practice.</p>
<p>It is a gorgeous landscape, you have to give him that.</p>
<p>A sprawl of brown hills, littered with ground down stone, rolls all the way to the edges of the horizon. You’re standing on the tallest part of the rather flat scenery, under a blanket of glistening stars and the soft, but cold, whisper of the afternoon winds.</p>
<p>Again, Toby pulls out of your thoughts by cradling your hand between his large palm. The way he moves is more vulgar than it has any right to be, making such a simple gesture feels as if he’s running his hand through your naked body instead. You wouldn’t mind that at all. But that has such a little chance of happening that it might as well be on a script too.</p>
<p>“I- ” Your next line evaporates out of your mind when he splays your hand against his bare chest. His skin is warm, your own particular sun, basked in the golden light that accentuates his moles and freckles and pores, the sparkling drops of sweat that shine on the hollow of his throat. </p>
<p>“You’re doing great. Just think a little less.” He presses his hand over yours, keeping it flush over the valley of his muscular chest.</p>
<p>Toby coasts the knuckles of his free hand on your arm that’s dangling by your side. He guides your wrist up as if he’s preparing your bodies to dance. The ground below utters a scraping sound as he shifts closer, small puffs of dust rising from the soles of his polished shoes.</p>
<p>“What is the scene asking for? What are the next steps? It doesn’t have to be logical. What does your character want? What are <em>you </em>longing for?” he encourages, entralacing his fingers with yours. An infinitesimal distance separates your bodies, just one breath away from touching.</p>
<p>Your gaze flashes to his pink, large lips, hinting the ghost of a smile. Toby hums, a deep, languid sound that rattles down your spine in a way you’d never thought could be so arousing.</p>
<p>Everything he does has an effect on you: on your mood, on your mind, on the last minutes before you fall asleep when you try to emulate what his touch would feel like.</p>
<p>The wind picks up.</p>
<p>His hair is blown around, strands flailing with no direction until they almost shroud his eyes.</p>
<p>That’s when you take your chance, scrunching the white, velvet soft fabric of his shirt under your fingers, pressing your body against his, until you’re not cold anymore. He smiles then, you don’t see it but you <em>feel</em> it, the way his mouth opens just a little wider, tongue darting out to devour you.</p>
<p>All in the name of art.</p>
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